Six Years
by Mornwey
Summary: Lima, Peru, 1941: Years have passed since the Temple of Doom, and Indiana Jones runs into an old friend. Hints of IndyXolder!Shorty
1. Six Years

**Rating** PG  
**Pairing:** Indy/Older!Shorty  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Indiana Jones, or anything relating to him. Sadly.

It's been six years. Six years, and a glimpse across a crowded barroom is all it takes to bring memories rushing back, make him a scared kid harbouring a secret crush again. He remembers picking pockets on the streets of Shanghai...learning to drive, speak English, handle a gun. Some memories don't need an external stimulus to come back. Every night he wakes from flashes of steaming jungles and black magic and the blood of Kali Ma.

He makes his way to the bar, moving through the crush of humanity with the ease of a lifetime's practice. All the time his eyes keep track of that unmistakable fedora. There's a woman hanging off his arm - some blonde, details don't really register. He looks good. Six years...there are new scars, the fedora is even more battered and in dire need of a clean, but the man himself is unchanged. Unchangeable.

The blonde is wittering about something inconsequential. He leans against the bar and waits to be noticed.It doesn't take long. Wary eyes scan the room constantly, and he doesn't miss the slight widening and expression of incredulous joy when they land on him.

"_Shorty_?"

He introduces himself as Chang Jian now, but he suspects that in this case he will never be free of the old nickname. So he grins and tips an imaginary hat and replies; "Doctor Jones."

His grin only widens as he's caught in a rib cracking bear-hug. He's still a clear head smaller, another reason he'll never escape from 'Shorty', but he doesn't care. It's been six long years, and Indy's holding on like he never means to let go, and there's a constant low litany in his ear of how are you, I missed you, and where the hell have you _been_, kid?

The blonde gives an indignant huff at being abandoned in favour of an old friend, and flounces off in the face of identical unapologetic grins sent her way.

Indy's finally released him, but the arm slung around his shoulders remains. Shorty endeavours with a questionable degree of success not to look like he's leaning contentedly into the older man's warm, solid side. It's difficult, mainly because he is.

He doesn't care though. Because the blonde's been summarily dismissed, and he's happy, and for the first time in six years he's back where he belongs.


	2. We'll Meet Again

**Rating:** FRT  
**Pairings:** Mainly Indy/Older!Shorty, past Indy/Marion, thwarted Indy/OFC  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing

Her name is Tracey, or possibly Stacy, but it hardly matters. Within a week she'll be just one more name on an ever-growing list, one more face in an endless sea of faces; neither ever connecting to the other in any meaningful way. No woman - save for the hard-drinking hellcat Marion - has ever managed to hold his attention for long.

It's not as if he's looking for true love anyway. Just a night of harmless fun - no expectations, no regrets.

Stacy - or was it Lacey? - might be pretty, but she isn't the most thrilling conversationalist he's ever known. Later he will realise how lucky this is, that she causes his attention to wander. He catches a glimpse of a startlingly familiar-looking face in the crowd. There is a young man watching him: untidy dark hair, nondescript and practical clothes; yet he stands out anyway, those delicate oriental features unusual in this part of the world.

He's familiar, _so_ familiar. The gaze fixed on him, though, is sharp and adult in a way he doesn't associate with that face. Surely that can't be Shorty. But then when their eyes meet he knows: no-one else has ever looked at him like that, with such absolute, unquestioning trust.

_'Not always, Indiana. Do you remember seeing the world through the unholy haze of Kali's blood - the look of betrayal and heartbreak in innocent eyes?'_

He ignores the voice of guilt, his companion for so long, and says hopefully; "_Shorty_?" And the stunned joy of finding something he'd thought lost overrides any regrets as the younger man grins and touches an invisible hatbrim and replies; "Doctor Jones."

In a heartbeat he's crossed the bar to pull the kid into a crushing hug. Lacey (Or perhaps it's Lauren, wasn't Lacey the one last week in La Paz?) is forgotten. He holds on tight - half afraid that if he lets go the kid will disappear again like he did when they hit Delhi all those years ago. Even when he finally releases his grip he keeps an arm slung around the younger man's shoulders._ Not going to lose him again._

Lauren or Maureen or whatever-her-name-is-who-gives-a-rat's-ass has gone off in a sulk, but he couldn't have cared less if he'd tried. He steers Shorty towards the stairs, somehow contriving to maintain physical contact the whole time. "Can't hear a damn thing," he says in answer to a questioning look, waving a hand at the crowd; "Got a room upstairs."  
"Sounds good to me," the kid replies. The voice is deeper now, older, but the accent and inflection are unmistakable. The strange tightness in his chest feels almost like homesickness.

Upstairs he sprawls on the bed, produces a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. The situation feels surreal - what're the odds? He pours the drinks and grins at Shorty, and a shock runs through him at the knowing smirk he receives in return. Sometime over the last six years, Shorty's grown up: he's dealing with a man now, not a boy.

This is going to be _interesting_.


End file.
